


This I Know Is True

by susannah_wilde



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Gift Giving, HP: EWE, M/M, Muggle Life, Post-War, Romance, no magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susannah_wilde/pseuds/susannah_wilde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Draco try to find the perfect Christmas gift for each other, despite having little in the world to call their own. Adapted from <i>The Gift of the Magi</i> by O. Henry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This I Know Is True

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** This I Know Is True  
>  **Author:** [](http://susannah-wilde.livejournal.com/profile)[**susannah_wilde**](http://susannah-wilde.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Pairing:** Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy  
>  **Adapted from:** [The Gift of the Magi](http://www.auburn.edu/~vestmon/Gift_of_the_Magi.html) by O. Henry  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Word Count:** 6,219 words  
>  **Disclaimer:** Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
>  **Author's Notes:** _The Gift of the Magi_ is one of my favorite Christmas stories, so when I saw this prompt, I knew I had to write it. Thank you to my fantastic betas [](http://drarryxlover.livejournal.com/profile)[**drarryxlover**](http://drarryxlover.livejournal.com/) and K for all your help. Also, thanks to the [](http://bottom-draco.livejournal.com/profile)[**bottom_draco**](http://bottom-draco.livejournal.com/) mods for hosting a wonderful fest. Title taken from lyrics from the Blue October song _[Should Be Loved](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iCK2ltFavs)._  
>  **Summary:** Harry and Draco try to find the perfect Christmas gift for each other, despite having little in the world to call their own.

  
This I Know Is True

On a cold winter morning, Draco wakes up when the upstairs neighbour slams the door shut. In the dark he can’t see the clock, and a quick peek through the frayed blue curtains reveals dark grey skies with snow flurries dancing in the wind. He takes a deep breath and lets it out as wisps of smoke in the chilly room, before sinking back into the sagging mattress. It won’t hurt to stay a while longer and enjoying a moments peace.

Draco loves waking up like this, with his face tucked against the curve of Harry’s neck, arms and legs entwined together to stay warm, while the quilt lays abandoned on the floor. It is moments like these, when he’s warm, safe, and happy in Harry’s arms, that he can pretend that the War didn’t ruin him.

_I will lay in bed until Mother sends Twiggy to bring us down to breakfast where Harry will turn red and stammer as he tries to answer questions to Mother’s satisfaction._ That illusion is easily shattered when no house elf appears and a lone bird chirps outside. He’s stayed far too long and he has obligations to fulfill.

A few shoves and well-placed kicks later, Draco has successfully untangled himself from Harry’s body. He stands there nude, stretching out the kinks and knots, jaw clenched tight so his teeth won’t chatter, while Harry curls into himself on the bed. Sighing, Draco picks up and shakes the patch-work quilt and places it gently on Harry. Then, because he can’t help himself, he brushes the soft black hair off the forehead and places a kiss on the scar. Harry grunts and dives deeper under the quilt.

Draco turns around, trying to dismiss the thought of rejoining Harry in bed as he changes into clothes that he wouldn’t have looked at before the war. But circumstances have changed, and now he wears t-shirts and denims like a second skin. While he’s tugging on a jumper, the glint of the full-length mirror catches his eye and he’s staring before he can stop himself.

Although, in the past he would devote an unusual amount of time in front of a mirror every morning, now Draco is hesitant to look in any mirror, and never nude. He knows the stranger staring back is him, but knowing and accepting are two different things that he struggles with every day. The blond hair, his only redeeming feature, is longer, left loose to hide the flaws of his face. His pale, grey eyes peek out from skin that is stretched too thin over jaw and cheek bones, giving him a permanent haunted look.

If Draco didn’t know any better, he’d say he was dying.

_That’s not to say that Harry wouldn’t kill me if he knew where I’m headed after agreeing not to leave again_ , Draco thinks.

It’s time to leave. He checks his messenger bag to see that it still holds the little amount of gold he has collected over the months. After wrapping a scarf around his neck, he picks up the cloak, carelessly dropped during last night’s frantic fumbling, and throws it over his body. In his haste to leave, he stumbles, catching himself on the door frame.

The Firebolt lies on the ground where Harry had thrown it after flying together yesterday. The twigs are in need of a good clipping, as well as smoothing out the cracks and grooves on the wooden handle. Or perhaps even a new one, but Harry always protests at the mere mention of a new broomstick and stubbornly holds on to his godfather’s present. Draco sighs and leans it against the wall, where Harry could take care of it later.

The last thing Draco sees before quietly shutting the door is the lump under the quilt and the fairy lights that twinkle on the Christmas tree in the corner of the small flat.

  
~ - ~ - ~

Despite being an old run-down pub, the Leaky Cauldron has become a popular place after the war and is full of patrons during lunch hour. Draco still doesn’t quite understand why he can see and enter the Leaky Cauldron and not feel the spurts of magic that radiate off the building.

The first few days after his banishment, he had wandered the streets cold, hungry, and tired, not wanting to use his mother’s wand for fear it would alert the Ministry. It wasn’t until he was chased by a group of men for walking in _their_ territory late at night, that he had turned the corner and had seen the Leaky Cauldron. Without thinking, he had rushed forward, excited that he had found a loophole into wizarding London.

No one had paid any attention to a dirty, ragged man when he walked straight inside and back out to the brick wall. He knew this was the entrance Muggleborns used, so it was less likely that the Ministry expected him to enter this way. He had stayed until sunrise, refusing to stop tapping bricks, only to be denied entrance. He had snapped his mother’s wand after that.

He pulls the cloak tighter around his body, walking slowly to avoid bumping into tables. The air is thick with the aroma of spices and roast beef that waft in from the kitchen and make Draco’s stomach growl. Between his stint in Azkaban and the months where his meals came out of rubbish bins, he hasn’t had a proper meal. _I’ve survived to Christmas Eve_ , he thinks, _might as well celebrate that accomplishment_. Draco mentally calculates how much money he has to spare, before searching the room for an empty table.

A familiar voice calls out just as Draco pulls off his cloak and sits at a table in the back corner. “Still searching for Malfoy?”

Draco flinches before hunching over the table. He slowly turns his head to the group of Aurors who have arrived. He easily spots Robards, who hasn’t changed much, still the arrogant bastard who led him from his cell in Azkaban and into the courtroom.

“Yeah, Nott’s lead in Scotland turned out to be false, and even Malfoy’s wife, who escaped to France, doesn’t know where he is.” So his father is still alive, a year after the war’s end.

“However, I figured that burning down the Manor would bring him out of hiding.” Draco scoffs, but privately agrees with Robards assessment. The destruction of his prized possessions by the Ministry would bring Lucius back, even if it meant crawling out of the grave.

“Hear what happened to the son?” This time a new man answers. Kingsley, if Draco remembers correctly.

“Who hasn’t? That little Death Eater shit deserved it!” A burst of laughter fills the air as Robards knocks back a pint of Firewhiskey.

“The Minister wants to find him and-” Kingsley says and an uneasiness settles in Draco’s stomach. He rises out of the seat, throwing the cloak over his body, almost knocking over a waitress carrying her tray. No one stops him as he rushes towards the back exit.

The brick wall is slick with snow, turning his fingers purple when he brushes frantically on the bricks-three up, two across- tapping as he had seen Harry do before. Nothing, not even a crack, appears. It never works for him, no matter what Harry believes, and he is a fool to repeatedly try and expect different results.

Draco kicks at the snow, sending a shower of flakes at his face. “Let me in!” he hisses irrationally at the wall. When that doesn’t work, he throws a shoulder straight into the bricks and a bright flash of red pain appears before his eyes. “Fuck!” he screams and slumps to the ground, leaning against the wall.

Having no wand is awful at times like this, yes, when he has to wait until the entrance to Diagon Alley opens. Or until Harry figures out that he nicked his Invisibility Cloak again and comes looking for him.

When the blanket of snow has reached a few centimetres, the entrance opens. Draco rises with shaky knees and no feeling in his arse. His dark mood lessens as a thin witch with red hair and magenta robes exits with her brood of children. He reluctantly thanks this Weasley clone as he slips through the gap in the wall.

Gringotts looms in the entrance with Aurors guarding the front doors and Draco hesitates before hurrying off in the opposite direction. His entire inheritance is located in numerous underground vaults, useless now that it’s marked off for war reparations. The small amount of Muggle notes and coins he’s wanted to exchange jingles loosely in his messenger bag. It’s not worth risking capture.

Instead, Draco makes his way into Knockturn Alley, where Borgin and Burkes stands open amongst boarded up shops and empty pavements. Old Mr Borgin is now Ministry sanctioned on Dark artefacts found in former Death Eater homes. _Selling his soul must have not been enough to escape Azkaban if he’s affiliated with the Ministry_ , Draco thinks darkly.

A draft of hail and snow bursts in the shop when Draco opens the door, alerting Mr Borgin at the counter. He looks up from a rusty time-turner that, despite its maddening spin, does not seem to affect time.

“Who’s there?” he asks, dropping the time-turner in a drawer and slamming it shut. Borgin’s hand trembles as he points his wand in the empty space in front of him. From beneath the cloak, Draco sees that the shop has been stripped of artefacts, leaving only the counter and empty shelves. Meanwhile, Borgin takes a step back and his beady eyes widen when Draco takes off the Invisibility Cloak.

“Mal-,” he sneers, before choking on his words.

“Don’t call me that,” Draco says. Borgin’s reaction is as expected, a mixture of surprise that soon is overtaken by disgust, and just as quickly replaced with a cool mask of indifference.

“Prefer the surname _Potter_ now?” he spits.

Draco freezes. “What does it matter?”

“That’s the only explanation on how you’re still alive.” Borgin continues before Draco has a chance to respond.

“After you were banished, there was a lottery at the Ministry to see how long you’d last.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Being a Malfoy, how could you possible survive a single day in Muggle London? No one gave you more than a week, and when no news of your death came,” Borgin leans forward and whispers into Draco’s ear, “well, no one cared. Yet here you are.”

“I’ve managed well on my own, long before Harry found me-”

Borgin lifts Draco’s chin higher with his wand and Draco meets those dark brown eyes without any fear. “Still slumming it with the Saviour? How much does he pay to fuck you?”

“He saved your pathetic life, or do you forget the weak fool you were a year ago!” Draco snarls, grasping Borgin’s hand and turning the wand straight over Borgin's heart.

The old man laughs and reaches down to slide the wand out of Draco’s grasp. “Please don’t insult my intelligence, Draco. Rumour is the _Saviour_ gave up his magic to be with you. You’re nothing better than a glorified Squib living with Potter, practically a Muggle. Still, you’ve got your uses, even if you are damaged goods.”

Draco flinches, a hint of red colouring his cheeks, before turning towards the door. Coming here was a bad idea, only serving as a reminder of everything that had gone wrong since taking the Dark Mark. Borgin managed to hint at the same question that kept Draco awake most nights. Even if he didn’t have the need to save people, would Harry still want him? What good is a magic-less person to the most powerful wizard of this generation?

Draco doesn’t make it to the door before he is pulled back as Borgin says, “Business is business and who I am to refuse a Malfoy treasure?”

Draco’s need for money is just enough to swallow his response and he turns back around, resigned. Borgin gives him a smile that shows too much teeth as he takes the messenger bag from Draco’s hands and spills its contents.

A complete potions set, the first and only one Draco has ever owned, and one of the few things Harry managed to bring with him. The copper, gold, and silver cauldrons are first rate, imported from the Continent in his first year, after receiving high marks in Potions. Borgin lifts each cauldron in the air and inspects each one thoroughly before he scribbles notes on the parchment. He does the same with the scales, placing tiny emeralds to take exact measurements. There is a gleam in his eyes as he brings out the knives with the ivory handles and blades that cut precisely through both plant roots and tough crystals and metals. Borgin pricks his fingers on the blade’s tip and then watches as the red pearl slides down before flicking it away.

Borgin presses his lips in a thin line as he writes some figures down on a piece of parchment and hands it to Draco. The total amount is much too small and Draco looks up, eyes livid.

“You steal from me after all the business my family has brought you? This is a fraction of what the cauldrons are alone worth.”

Borgin looks at him with a bored expression on his face. “It’s none of your concern, _Draco_. Besides, they are several years old, out of style, well-used, and you’ve no choice, no one will buy from you,” the shop owner taunts him as he places coins in a pouch. He throws the pouch at Draco, hitting him square on the chest. “You’re lucky I just didn’t take them along with that Cloak. Payback’s a bitch,” he sneers as he turns around to head towards the doorway behind the counter.

“Now run along before the Aurors come.”

Although he might be bluffing, it’s enough of a threat to make Draco rush out into the snowdrift. If he’s caught, it won’t be Aurors that finish stripping him of his magic, but death.

The shops windows are decorated festively with fairy lights, tinsel, and holly, displaying new toys and trinkets for children. The temptation to stop and peer into every window is great, even if he came here with a purpose. Instead, he amuses himself with what he could buy if he had the chance, until he stands just outside Quality Quidditch. Through the crowd inside, Draco stares at the newest broomstick release: the Equinox.

The closer Draco moves to inspect the broom, the more his insides twist in guilt. Harry should own this beauty, he thinks. He has memorised all the broom’s details from sneaking into Diagon Alley when he doesn’t want to sit alone in the flat, feeling useless. Draco has no doubt that it was made for Harry.

The handle is made out of mahogany, a superior wood. The twigs are arranged in a uniform pattern, clipped and weaved together with unicorn hair. As a racing broom it can withstand collisions and allows for maneuvers that guard it with cushioning charms. Overall, it’s a first rate broom and a vast improvement over the Firebolt. However, even after the money Borgin gave him, Draco still doesn’t have enough to even buy a twig off the broom, and even if he did, Harry wouldn’t want such an extravagant amount spent on him.

Draco knows it’s the perfect gift for Harry and he would sell whatever pure part of his soul remained just to give it to him.

At every free opportunity, Harry and Draco go flying in the countryside, to escape the monotony of their lives. Draco enjoys flying, with one of Harry’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist as the other hand guides the broom. Many times they’ve twisted through the air, trying to not fall off a broom that’s meant for one person. Draco loves Harry’s laughter, deep and strong, that always tickles Draco’s ear whenever they fly under the star-filled sky. It’s Draco’s second favourite feeling in the world, the thrill that sends his heart into frenzy, and in that moment he swears that it’s not just excitement, but the faint stirrings of magic.

Although sometimes, just after they’ve landed, Draco catches Harry staring at the sky with a longing that he knows so well, although Harry is too polite to say anything. Draco’s knows he’s never been good at expressing his feelings, his pure-blood upbringing ensures that he always hides behind a mask of indifference, but this time he thinks he’s close.

He goes inside the shop and grabs a simple broom servicing kit. The lanky sixteen-year-old gives him a brief scare, when after taking Draco’s money, holds his hand and doesn’t let go. Draco tugs his hand, almost succeeding in leaving behind a glove, when the teen looks him in the eyes and drops a golden ball in his palm. “This purchase comes with a free Snitch.”

Draco gives a brief nod before rushing outside, tucking his gifts and cloak in the messenger bag. There are a few Sickles left in the pouch, enough to buy himself a small treat. Smiling, he heads towards the nearest sweet shop. His weakness for chocolate has followed him into adulthood.

The smell of spun sugar and chocolate waft through the front door. Draco closes his eyes to better savour the scent. Unfortunately, he bumps into someone and sends brightly coloured packages into the snow. Muttering apologies, he bends down and retrieves a bag, and just as he’s about to hand it back, a female voice cries out, “Malfoy!”

He freezes and while his first instinct tells him to run, he can’t; he has to look to see who’s recognised him. Hermione Granger stands just inside the shop, one hand rubbing her back as she supports the weight of her swollen stomach. She looks down at him in surprise, eyes drinking in his thin frame and clothes, before holding out her hand. Draco stares at her before realising that she doesn’t carry a wand.

Granger quickly retracts her hand before saying, “Is Harry with you? Ron and I…”

_So the rumour has spread_ , Draco thinks before the Weasel’s name causes him to throw the packages at the ground and start running. He slides across the snow, trying to unzip the messenger bag and pull out the Invisibility Cloak. His hat flies off, showing off his blond hair, and people start to recognize him. Coins scatter on the ground, but it’s unimportant as the stunned crowd parts to let him through, with parents stepping in front of their children.

The cry of “Ferret!” shatters the winter’s silence and Draco remembers Kingsley’s earlier words about the Minister searching for him. Hexes and curses begin to fly, and when Draco chances a look back, it’s not just people in red uniforms giving chase. It’s not like last time, when the Aurors arrived at Flourish and Blotts and Mother had yelled at him to run. Then it had only been three Aurors and he had managed to escape. Now he had a mob after him.

A stray red curse grazes Draco’s arm and he cries out as red blood paints the snow. He grasps his arm, a poorly made tourniquet, and he forgets about the Invisibility Cloak and just focuses on reaching the back entrance of the Leaky Cauldron.

His lungs hurt with the effort to breathe, and, coupled with the pain throbbing from his arm, Draco struggles not to collapse. The wind has picked up, sending stronger bursts of snow into the air, blurring everyone’s vision.

_I won’t be taken away this time._ Draco is three metres from the wall when a young wizard and his family enter, looking frightened at the scene in front of them. The Weasel halts his hexes in order to avoid hitting them, and Draco rushes through. He doesn’t look back as he enters the pub and then disappears into the crowds of Muggle London.

  
~ - ~ - ~

As soon as he is certain that he isn’t being followed, Draco arrives home to patch himself up. The hydrogen peroxide burns him as he cleans the wound, leaving a shiny pink spot that stings when he rubs it.

He then sets out to make spaghetti, which Draco is convinced looks like worms swimming in blood, but Harry loves. The radio plays softly in the background and the sweet piano melody reminds Draco of the lessons he had as a child. _Who would have thought the Malfoy heir would grow up knowing his way around the kitchen?_

Draco smiles when the heat slowly warms the flat, Harry’s personal way of letting him know he is almost home. Harry never lets on, but Draco knows every day is a struggle. The war stopped their formal education, and without any credentials, they can’t have regular jobs. And Harry wouldn’t let him work, even in Muggle London, for fear that the Aurors would find him. Instead, Harry picks up odd jobs here and there to make ends meet, while Draco kept house.

A jingling at the door makes Draco look up from the pasta he’s straining to see Harry enter carrying a stack of chopped wood. He walks over to the fireplace and stacks the pieces of wood into the hearth, causing wisps of ash to float in the air. Harry gives a brief wave that sends a spark, which he fans with a newspaper until he’s satisfied with the scarlet flames that lick the air. The strings of fairy lights flicker when Harry turns towards the tree. He smiles brightly at Draco’s present, hastily wrapped in newspaper, before laying a larger cardboard box next to it. Draco looks away but hears as Harry approaches the tiny kitchen.

“Miss me?” Harry asks, placing a kiss on Draco’s cheek. Draco pauses, smelling the fresh snow and woodsy scent of his jacket, before he leans into the chapped lips. “You were gone when I woke up,” Harry says, stepping back to wash his hands and for a moment, Draco is lost. He’s never known real affection, not from his friends, and certainly not from his father, but Harry gives it away freely, with hugs and unexpected kisses, and it’s one of the things that Draco feels guilty for taking.

“I wouldn’t let you starve on Christmas Eve,” he says instead, and Harry laughs.

“Good, let’s eat and then I’ll tell you how it rates on the Disaster scale.”

Draco’s cheeks flush pink at the thought of his first attempts at cooking. Everything had burnt straight to the pot or was very undercooked, and so to cheer Draco up, Harry would rate each meal, braving a bite to do so. Even as Draco’s cooking improved, Harry would still critique each meal to humor him.

The dinner is eaten in silence as Draco tries to eat without thinking of worms or smearing tomato sauce on his face. A dry red wine would properly complete the meal, but ginger ale works just as well. Harry eats his way through two servings before he sits back and starts to tap his fingers on the table, green eyes staring. Draco ignores him, but after a few more bites of peppers and meatballs, he pushes the plate away and says, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

Harry chuckles. “Not this time. However, I do want to thank you for a delicious dinner.”

“All right, you can start by washing the dishes.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Save those for later. Right now I want you to open your present.”

“It’s Christmas Eve. You can’t break some tradition without good reason.”

Harry snorts. “Who’s to stop us? Besides, I really think you’ll enjoy your present.” The pleading look on Harry’s face doesn’t let Draco protest when Harry takes his hands and pulls them to sit down right in front of the Christmas tree.

“I know you’re unhappy, stuck in the flat all day, even with your not-so-secretive trips to Diagon Alley.” Draco gives him a questioning look, but Harry continues. "I’ve been working on that. Three weeks ago, I saw a sign for a new shop opening.”

“What? Did you find a job?” If it’s true, then no more counting coins, skipping meals, or restless nights trying to make ends meet. Even more important, Harry wouldn’t look as if he carried the entire world’s burdens on his shoulders. He’d actually have time to relax.

“No, not exactly a job I would be good for.”

“How is this good news?”

“I found you a job, Draco.” Harry turns around and reaches for the cardboard box. He slides the present towards Draco, who ignores it in favor of asking more questions.

“Doing what? I’m not cleaning the loos. I can’t do anything useful. No magic or wand remember?”

Harry frowns. “You’re good at Potions. This will be easy for you, Draco. And for once, I agree that Muggles have some strange ideas on their own, but it seems that they have finally come into some wizard lore.”

“What nonsense are you spouting this time?” Draco rolls his eyes. “Have they finally figured out the secret to life?”

“Close. They now use alternative medicine that relies on more earth-bound knowledge, sort of like Potions and Herbology that wizards use. I spoke to the owner yesterday and she said she was looking for an assistant.”

He pushes the cardboard box once more to Draco. “She said she would hire you if you really knew your material. You could brew a simple potion, perhaps a Pepper Up potion. Something discrete that works efficiently. In the box are ingredients to help you with that.”

Draco takes the box and flips open the lid. He takes out a cherry wood polished box with little compartments of various sizes with glass coverings to keeps the ingredients pure. Each compartment contains different herbs: milk thistle, ginkgo, aloe vera, sage, ginger, chamomile, very similar to the storage box his godfather kept in his office.

“How did you manage?” Draco asks in a faint voice. “This box alone must have set you back a bit.”

“The box is custom-made, but the herbs are inexpensive. However, this is what I really want you to have.”

He gives him a book with a depressed spine and brittle pages. The words are faded but Draco can make out the faint drawing of a cauldron on the cover.

“A sixth year Potions textbook? Thanks, Potter. Of what use is this to me?”

“Just open the book, Draco.”

Draco opens the cracked cover and flips through the pages. A note on the top corner stops him; he would recognise this handwriting anywhere, from good remarks on a potions essay to letters owled during the summer. He flips through the pages with his godfather’s carefully crafted instructions scribbled all over the printed words.

The memory of his godfather killing Dumbledore, while he escapes, flashes through his mind.

He shuts the book. “I can’t accept this.”

“Snape… he wanted you to have this. He left all of his possessions to Hogwarts and I was going through his papers at the office when… well the day you were attacked.” Harry looks away, choosing instead to stare into the fire.

The fact that it’s the first time the attack’s been mentioned without Harry trying to apologise is enough for Draco to explode. “That’s just it! I can’t do any of this.”

“That’s not true! You’re brilliant at potions.”

“Brilliance doesn’t matter if I don’t have the equipment to work with. I don’t have a wand. You can’t do potions without a wand, and even if I did, I can’t use one.”

“I don’t have one either!”

“Says the person who can do wandless magic.”

Before Harry can answer, Draco reaches under the tree for the newspaper wrapped package and tosses his gift at Harry. “I sold my potion’s equipment to buy you this.”

Giving him a curious glance, Harry tears open the paper and lifts out the package. "You went to Diagon Alley just to buy me a broom servicing kit?”

“Yes, but with good reason. And don’t forget the Snitch.” He retrieves the Snitch and places it in Harry’s hand, who starts turning it between his fingers. His lips are pursed and lines are drawn on his forehead, deep in thought.

“Why did you go? Don’t you know that if you had been caught and killed, how I would feel? What are you trying to prove?”

“While I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, I don’t want you to have any regrets about leaving. I can’t bring your friends or adopted family to come see you, but I can give you the freedom of flying.”

After a long pause, Harry places a hand on his cheek, turning to meet his eyes. Draco’s breath hitches at the look he finds there. “I should have told Ron about us from the beginning. Maybe things would have turned out differently.”

“Potter,” Draco warns, knowing it’s useless to relive the past.

“It’s true. His brother had just been killed, and he felt the need to avenge Fred's death. He thought that hunting down all the Death Eaters to place in Azkaban seemed like a step in the right direction. I just didn’t know he would turn up at Grimmauld and find you there. Forgive me?”

“Stop talking, Potter. There’s nothing to forgive.”

“No, I need to know,” Harry says. “This relationship we have won’t work if you keep secrets. Tell me why you hate yourself.”

Harry’s never used his magic against Draco, though he’s been tempted many times.

“Show me, please,” Harry pleads, voice breaking on the last word, and he can’t say no anymore.

Draco nods once. The prickling sensation is weak, but even Harry, useless as he is in Legilimency, enters his mind with ease. Draco immediately tries to place up barriers, just as he had done during Voldemort’s residence at the Manor, but the images soon appear.

_Weasel’s surprise at finding Draco in the sitting room of Grimmauld Place._

_On the stone floor in Azkaban, trying to stay sane with memories of Harry as the Dementors hover, awaiting his soul._

_The entire Wizengamot watching as his magic is stripped away._

_The cold nights out on the street, trying to decide if it’s worth staying alive._

_Waking up in a strange room with Harry’s green eyes peering down in concern._

_The strange happiness he feels during the day, warring with his familiar nightmares, when his inner demons say that he isn’t good enough. That his magic is gone and he should be dead._

Draco opens his eyes to find he’s lying down in Harry’s lap.

“You’re wrong,” Harry says quietly. “I’ve never thought of you as less than a wizard.”

“Please Potter, I know it’s true. It’s hidden somewhere in a little corner of your mind, even if you’re not actively thinking about it.”

“Then it’s my fault letting you believe that, Draco. Your magic makes me feel alive,” Harry murmurs. “Let me show you.”

Harry pushes Draco’s head out of the way as he stands up. His fingers are cool as they grasp onto Draco’s hand and pull him up. Draco lets out a gasp as his knee hits the corner of the table, but Harry ignores him. In the fire light, the Snitch casts a golden glint on the white walls, weaving delicately over their heads.

Harry opens the bedroom door, ignoring the bed that now has a yellow duvet. He doesn’t flip on the light switch; instead the candles scattered throughout the room light up.

“Stand here,” Harry commands, and too late, Draco finds himself in front of the floor-length mirror covered in a white sheet. His takes a step back, but Harry Vanishes the white sheet and just like this morning, Draco can’t help but to stop and stare.

“What do you see, Draco?” Harry murmurs.

This isn’t him, Draco Malfoy. The person staring back is a pale imitation of the wizard who could cast two of the Unforgivable curses, Dark Magic, but a sign of a strong and accomplished wizard. Now he stands here, stripped of everything he’s known, and he hates himself for it.

A string of curses are on the tip of Draco’s tongue when his clothes Vanish. Panic sets in and he wraps his arms around himself, fingers touching the pointy ribs hidden underneath a thin layer of skin. It doesn’t do much to cover the expanse canvas of scars that mark his failure in the war.

The soft fabric of cotton contrasted with the rough texture of denims press against his back. Harry holds onto him tight and places his chin on Draco’s shoulder, brushing the blond hair behind his ear.

“Tell me what’s wrong?” He repeats. “Is it your appearance?”

“Let me go, Potter,” Draco hisses, fury and humiliation painting his cheeks red. “You’ve had your fun-”

Harry ignores him in favour of gently pulling the fingers off and stretching their arms out like puppets on a string. He tugs both of their right hands to trace the gash that is cut diagonally across his chest. Draco winces at the memory and the exact moment his life shot to hell.

“I know you’re beautiful,” Harry says and Draco’s heart gives a strange jolt at those words. “In fact, I should be wondering why you even love me. I’m the one who sliced you open and left you bleeding on the bathroom floor.”

“With good reason. I was trying to kill you.”

“No, you were trying to survive,” Harry says before grabbing Draco’s left forearm. He presses small kisses onto the black stain, skin burning more than receiving the Dark Mark ever did.

Draco looks up, glancing at the fuzzy view from his peripheral vision. Yet he can clearly make out Harry’s green eyes open and honest as he continues talking.

“We’re not that different.”

Draco snorts. “You’re delusional.”

Harry lowers his arms around Draco’s waist, pulling the blond closer.

“It’s a pity you don’t know what I see, but maybe this will help.” He gives a light shove, forcing Draco to press his hands against the glass so that he doesn’t fall. His biting remark dies when the warm heat of Harry’s skin sends a shiver down his spine.

“I want you to see how beautiful you are when you lose control and your mouth says the things that your heart knows,” Harry whispers.

A mirror puts everyone on display, magnifies any flaw, but he soon forgets his, as he concentrates on Harry. He follows the swollen, red lips that press kisses, each a light and gentle caress, everywhere. He stops when he finds a love bite left from last night, nudging it first with his nose, then biting the bruised skin. Draco hisses at the tender spot, clawing at the mirror as Harry laughs.

It doesn’t feel different from being in bed, so Draco opens his eyes to look at them. His hair is a mess, the tendons in his neck strain as beads of sweat trail down his flushed face. Harry’s whispering things, nonsense for all Draco can understand, slowly wanking him off, but he’s in a similar state. A moan escapes his mouth as he pushes his arse back against to feel Harry’s cock slide against his cleft, and soon Harry has Draco arching into his chest, willing to do anything to find release.

“I want you inside me.” Draco’s words are rushed, breath hitched in anticipation. Harry spreads Draco’s legs, conjuring lube before reaching down. With one slick finger, Harry traces the pucker at Draco’s opening. The light pain gives Draco a brief pause, but he dismisses it as he pushes against Harry’s finger, groaning as the ring of muscle make way. Harry whispers, soothing words against his ear, adding more fingers, twisting them gently in and out. With the other hand, he reaches back and traces small patterns on the pale skin, giving comfort.

Draco can feel it, the steady heat that pools at the bottom of his stomach, and he slows down enough to call out “Now!” There is barely enough time to miss the removal of fingers before Harry places his already slicked cock at the entrance and slowly moves forward, creating delicious friction.

Draco closes his eyes as he feels the stirrings increase as Harry hits his prostate with every thrust. There is that quick electric shock that signifies the start of his orgasm, but just underneath is a slow-burning fire. It’s not unlike an _Imperio_ , because he _does_ feel safe, happy, and willing to do whatever asked of him. However, the pull doesn’t come from an outside source, but rather from an unexpected place: the wild beating of his heart.

He opens his eyes to find bright green eyes staring at him, not with the judgement everyone is quick to give and he knows he deserves, but with warmth, appreciation, and most importantly, love.

With his answer, Draco lets go, coating his chest and the mirror with hot come, as Harry soon follows, filling him inside.

  
~ - ~ - ~

“I love you.”

“I know.”

The last thing Draco sees before sleep claims him is Harry’s smile in the moonlight.


End file.
